Hostage (Bodyguard #1)(9)
A truth suddenly dawned on Connor. ‘So I’m not under arrest?’
‘Whoever said you were?’ replied the colonel, arching an eyebrow.
Connor turned to the two police officers, then realized neither of them had read him his rights or officially arrested him. They’d only asked him to accompany them to the station.
‘I’ll leave you to think about my offer,’ said Colonel Black, laying a business card on top of the envelope. The card was black as night with an embossed silver logo of a shield sprouting wings. Below it was a single telephone number – and nothing else.
The colonel nodded goodbye, then disappeared out through the door, the two police officers in tow.
Connor was left alone in the room. He stared at the card, his mind whirling with the events of the past hour. His life had been spun on its axis – one moment he was being crowned UK Kickboxing Champion, the next he was being recruited as a bodyguard. He stared at the envelope, both intrigued and a touch afraid of what it might contain. He decided to leave it for later. He had other matters to think about first.
Picking up the card, envelope and his father’s photo, Connor stood and headed for the door. When he opened it, he thought he’d made a mistake and gone the wrong way. The lights in the foyer were all off, the reception booth deserted, the building silent as a grave.
‘Hello? Anyone there?’ he called. But no one answered.
He spotted his kitbag on the counter. Stowing the envelope and photo next to his trophy and pocketing the colonel’s business card, he made his way to the main entrance. His footsteps echoed through the empty foyer. As he passed the noticeboard, he saw the Neighbourhood Watch meeting was for two years ago and briefly wondered why the announcement was still up. Pushing open the heavy double doors, he stepped outside into the grey evening light. Relieved to escape the tomb-like atmosphere of the station, he looked down the street for Colonel Black. But neither the colonel nor the police officers were in sight. Then, as the double doors slammed shut behind him, he noticed the terrorism poster had been taken down. An official blue-and-white sign was now visible:
THIS IS NO LONGER A POLICE STATION.
The nearest station is 444 Barking Road, Plaistow.
Connor stared at the sign, stunned. The whole operation had been a set-up!
He felt in his pocket and pulled out the one thing proving the encounter had even occurred – the black business card with the silver winged shield … and a solitary telephone number.
‘You’re late, Hazim,’ growled the brooding man in Arabic, through a mouthful of green khat leaves. The man, who boasted a thick bushy beard, a hooked nose and sun-blasted skin the colour of the deep desert, bared a row of brown-yellowish teeth in displeasure.
‘I’m sorry, Malik, but the plane was delayed getting in,’ replied Hazim, bowing his head in deference to the man who sat like a king at the far end of the rectangular whitewashed mafraj room.
Malik tutted in irritation, yet nonetheless waved him over to sit by his side. Hazim, a young man of Yemeni origin with dominant eyebrows and an angular face, almost handsome if not for his downturned mouth, nervously took his place among the other members of the Brotherhood.
The room was full of men dressed in ankle-length thawb, their white cotton robes providing relief from the heat of the day. Some were bareheaded, others wore red-and-white chequered headscarves. They reclined on large cushions, left leg tucked underneath, right arm upon the right knee, and the left arm supported by a padded armrest. Before each was a pile of green stems from which they picked leaves to chew as they engaged in animated conversation.
As was tradition in a mafraj room there were two rows of windows, the upper set decorated in stained glass through which the late-afternoon sun scattered shards of rainbow colours across the thickly carpeted floor. The lower clear windows were pushed wide open to allow a cool breeze to waft in. Not accustomed to the country’s intense heat, Hazim turned towards one of the openings in relief. From the topmost floor of the house, he was able to admire the magnificent vista of Sana’a, the capital city of Yemen. The flat sun-dried rooftops of the myriad white and sand-coloured houses stretched into the distance, where they met the awe-inspiring Sarawat mountain range.
‘So where’s your khat?’ demanded Malik.
Hazim held up his hands in apology. ‘Sorry, I was more worried about the CIA trailing me than shopping in the souk.’
‘Tsk!’ Malik spat, batting away his excuse. ‘I won’t tolerate lateness or lack of respect to our traditions. Understand?’
Hazim nodded, shifting uncomfortably under the man’s fierce gaze. Then, like quicksilver, Malik’s harsh expression switched to a genial smile and he clapped Hazim on the back.
‘No matter this time, Hazim. You were right to be cautious. Kedar, give him some of yours,’ he ordered a man to Hazim’s left. ‘A true Yemeni should never be without.’
Kedar, a man of Herculean build with a wiry beard, offered Hazim a handful of green stems. Chewing khat was the social norm in Yemen. All men gathered together at the end of the day to sit down, chew khat and put the world to rights, just as Americans met in Starbucks for coffee and the English enjoyed a pot of tea – except the intoxicating effect of chewing khat was the equivalent of several strong espressos in a row.
Nodding gratefully to Kedar, Hazim pulled a few leaves from a stem and popped them in his mouth. As he bit down, the bitterness of the khat’s juices hit his taste buds.